“I’d really rather discuss it with Stephen, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course. I understand,” he said.
She could picture him sneering on the other end of the line.
“The only problem is,” Preston drawled, trying his damnedest to be sympathetic and understanding but failing miserably. “He’s down the hall just a few seconds away from being interviewed by CNN on the floor vote.”
“I don’t care, Preston. I need to speak to him right now. Put him on,” Sandra demanded.
“Oops, there he goes. He’s on live right now with Anderson Cooper. You don’t want me to interrupt him while he’s talking to Anderson Cooper, do you?”
Sandra sighed. “How long is it going to take?”
“Shouldn’t be more than five minutes. They have to cut to a commercial at some point, right? Just hold on. We’ll wait together.”
Preston let a few moments go by before attempting a little small talk. “How are the boys?”
“They’re fine,” Sandra said, refusing to offer any more.
“Stephen showed me pictures. I can’t believe how much they’ve grown! They’re young men now!”
“Yes,” Sandra said through gritted teeth.
Preston finally got the message and stopped trying to engage her in a conversation. After a few more minutes of awkward silence, Preston said cheerily, “He just wrapped up. Sit tight. I’ll put him on.”
Sandra waited just a few seconds before she heard the laconic, soothing voice of her husband, Stephen.
“Hey, honey, what’s up?”
“Have you heard about what Dirty Laundry is saying about you?”
“Wait . . . hold up. Dirty what?”
“Dirty Laundry . . . I told you about it when you were home a couple of weekends ago. It’s that awful site that targets people connected to the high school, putting out clickbait by drumming up scandals and headlines, some true, some fake.”
“Right. I remember. So what are they saying?”
Sandra clicked over to the site and read her husband the headline.
There was a long silence.
“Are you still there?” Sandra asked.
He let loose with a hearty laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me . . .”
“No, I’m not. It says so right here in front of me.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. There is not a shred of truth to it.”
Sandra believed him.
She had to believe him.
Otherwise, then where would she be?
“It came out while I was delivering my welcome speech as the new PTA president. It really threw me. I didn’t know what to say, so I got out of there. I’m sure Principal Hicks is furious with me for bailing, but I just had to talk to you and get your reaction.”
“And you got it. Don’t sweat it, babe. Even if the mainstream media somehow picks it up, once people figure out it’s all lies, they’ll move on to something else. It won’t even last a full news cycle.”
“Well, is there some sort of recourse we can take? Get whomever posted it to take it down?”
“Don’t waste your energy,” Stephen said. “Like you said, most of what pops up on that site is fake news, so I don’t expect too many people to take it seriously, okay?”
“Okay,” Sandra said.
“Now, I have to get back inside. They’re about to take a vote,” Stephen said. “Stop worrying, Sandra.”
“I will,” Sandra promised.
“No, you won’t. I know you. This is nothing, believe me.”
“I love you,” Sandra whispered.
“I love you too, sweetheart. I’ll call you to say good night when I get back to my apartment later.”
And then he hung up.
Sandra felt better.
That’s what Stephen was so good at.
Making people feel better.
Which was why he was a two-term senator who sailed to victory in his last election by a whopping twenty-two points.
Sandra pushed the gear of her Audi into drive and drove home to her upscale residential neighborhood and her nineteenth-century New England–style colonial house that she and Stephen had recently restored to its original glory. As she rounded the corner, she instinctively slammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop in the middle of the road. Just ahead, camped out on her front lawn, was a swarm of reporters and cameras and harsh lights and a long line of news vans parked all the way down the street. And one thing was crystal clear in her mind. They were all waiting for her.
CHAPTER THREE
Sandra took a deep breath and continued driving down the street, taking a sharp right turn into her driveway. The throng of reporters surged forward, trampling her front lawn and surrounding her car. She reached up and pressed the button to open the garage, but the door didn’t open. She tried again. And then again. Nothing. The door remained firmly closed. The battery in the remote had been giving her trouble the last few weeks. She knew she should’ve gotten the battery changed. But she kept putting it off, and now the damn thing was kaput. She was going to have to get out of the car and fight her way into the house through the front door.
She grabbed her purse and mentally prepared herself for the ordeal of pushing and shoving her way past the cluster of reporters who would jostle around her to get some kind of statement.
Do not engage with them.
She said it to herself a few more times until she was ready.
And then, she pushed open the door and stepped out of the car. She kept her head down as the reporters descended upon her, excitedly shouting questions.
“What do you have to say about your husband using taxpayer money to squash a sexual harassment claim against him?”
“Do you know your husband’s accuser?”
“Is there more than one woman? Do you have a number? Three? Six? More than a dozen?”
“Were you aware of this claim against your husband?”
“Mrs. Wallage, have you filed for divorce?”
She got knocked in the head with a microphone. One overly aggressive female reporter grabbed a fistful of her white suit jacket and tugged on it, trying to slow her down as she struggled to make it to her front door. Sandra yanked free and kept pushing forward, and then, with the enormity of it all overcoming her, she felt tears welling up in her eyes.
Don’t cry.
For heaven’s sake, don’t cry.
She raised an arm to cover her face, not to protect herself from the flashing lights and prying camera lenses, but to hide the fact that tears were now streaming down her cheeks.
She wasn’t going to make it.
The front door still seemed miles away, and the reporters, who didn’t seem to care that they were on private property, kept blocking her path, shouting insulting question after insulting question.
She was ready to collapse on the lawn and curl up in a ball when the female reporter who had so rudely grabbed her screamed. Everyone stopped for a moment to look at her. She was